Locking Up the Sun
by LookingBeyondTheEmbers
Summary: The villagers say the cave is haunted by the spirit of a man who met a horrific end. The Inseparables didn't believe it, not really. Not until they decided to investigate the disappearances of local children and find more than they bargained for. Now it's a race for their lives against time and the darkness. Rated M for horror and graphic descriptions. Set between seasons 1 and 2.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:**_ Hello, everybody! What? A brand new story? That's right. This idea has been driving me crazy for a good while, and I finally sat down to write it.

This will be a multi-chapter fic chronicling what happens when you poke your nose where it doesn't belong. Or when our four favorite soldiers do.

I feel it fair to warn readers, this story will have very little to do with the actual show besides the characters, the setting, and their habits. This isn't a situation that they would normally get themselves into on the show. I wanted to make a story where the Inseparables got lost in some caves, and so I did. It's set after the finale of Season 1, but before Season 2 begins.

Straight-up horror, you guys. Seriously, I'm not kidding. I've never written a story with an M rating before, but I'm _cautiously_ attaching one here just because of the graphic descriptions and violence in later chapters. If you're not of age or you frighten easily, please _please_ go read something else. I don't want to give anyone nightmares who wasn't actively seeking out this kind of writing.

That being said, if anyone enjoys this, please leave a review :)

I'm a long-time fan of horror writing but I've never had the courage to try my hand at it. Until now.

**Disclaimer:** By now, it must come as a shock to all of you that I don't own this. Crazy, right? The title of this story was taken from a song with the same name by Finnish rock band Poets of the Fall. They are also awesome. And I don't own that either.

Namaste.

* * *

_"Oh, but you must travel through those woods again and again…" said a shadow at the window. "…And you must be lucky to avoid the wolf every time."_

_But the wolf…the wolf only needs enough luck to find you once…"_

_-Emily Carroll, Through the Woods._

* * *

The night was still and calm. Silvery moonlight played along the edges of the cave, highlighting the yawning abyss of the entrance.

An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, and the crickets chirped peacefully.

The night progressed, and a dark cloud obscured the moon. The clearing was plunged into total darkness. The long grass rustled in urgent whispers, spurred by the wind.

The shadows deepened, and the void within the cave seemed to increase.

Suddenly, an unearthly shriek was heard from the farthest depths of the cavern. The lamenting howl rent the air and broke the silence of the night. It echoed throughout the hollow space and magnified itself. The wail seemed to go on and on forever, an inhuman cry torn from the throat of an unknown beast.

It was the voice of a demon, escaped from unimaginable torment and heat of flaming sepulcher of the heretics, or perhaps broken free of an eternity locked in the frozen circle of Judecca's ice.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, the cry stopped. The innocent creatures of the night resumed their nocturnal activities slowly and cautiously. And yet the night was changed, more ominous and somehow tainted. The cold wind blew over the land with ill-tidings carried on its wings.

* * *

The Inseparables were riding on the outskirts of Paris, near the countryside. The day was calm and the break from duty would have been peaceful, if not for the incessant jabbering of a newer recruit.

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes.

"You've got to be joking."

"I'm not!" his companion protested. The man was tall and lanky, although with wiry muscles and a shock of fiery red hair.

"Pierre, I've heard many things come out of your mouth that I wouldn't exactly deem as highly knowledgeable. However, this surpasses everything," Athos replied from on horseback by his side.

"No, it's true!" Pierre protested. "The cave really is haunted! The villagers won't even go near it around sunset. They say it's the spirit of a man who got lost inside and wandered in the darkness until he died."

"And you believe that?" Aramis asked incredulously. "Really, Pierre. I thought you had more sense than that.

The red-headed man opened his mouth to protest again when Porthos interrupted him with a look.

"Listen, it's not that we don't believe you. Well, actually it is," he said, frowning while Aramis smirked by his side.

Pierre's eyes flashed with anger. "Fine. Don't believe me. The locals will say it's true. Why not go ask them?"

"Absolutely not," Athos intoned flatly. "We're not traveling out of our way to go chase a fairy tale."

"And why not?" Pierre shot back. "It's not as though we've anything more pressing to get on with. Let's go ask the locals and explore the cave ourselves. Unless," he continued slyly, "you're afraid that I'm right and there may be something down there."

Porthos snorted. "You're dumber than you look if you think we're going to fall for that one, lad."

The redhead swelled with fury.

"You're just scared," he snapped, ears red with embarrassment. "Four of the greatest soldiers in the musketeers, afraid of shadows and a challenge. Perhaps the legends surrounding all of you are just as insubstantial as your courage."

"What did you say?" d'Artagnan asked in a dark, angry tone, wheeling his horse around.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said calmly.

"No, I'd like to hear this," the Gascon said, blocking Pierre's way.

"What will you lose?" Pierre asked sneeringly. "A few hours of your time only. And perhaps your dignity," he added.

Porthos started to dismount, but Aramis put a restraining hand on his brother's arm.

"I'd like to see how this young man reacts in the face of his so-called danger," the handsome medic said calmly enough.

"We really don't have time for this," Athos said with a sigh, knowing he had already lost.

"Well, when there's nothing to this tall tale, we'll be able to ridicule this insolent pup mercilessly for a good week," Porthos said easily, waving a large hand through the air.

"And if there is something in the cave after all, we'll just feed him to it," d'Artagnan added.

Pierre looked mildly uncomfortable at this.

"Only joking," d'Artagnan added, in a tone that said the opposite. "Let's go see."

The others looked at Athos expectantly, who only sighed again. "This is a terrible idea."

* * *

The soldiers rode up to the village, noting the poor region. The houses were little more than dirty hovels. Most of the roofs were badly patched with dark mud and moldy straw, giving them an oddly diseased appearance. Peasants scuttled left and right, giving the men on horseback wide berths.

Aramis noted more than a few women shooing their children back inside with anxious glances toward them. The men looked up and stood in the streets. Almost all of them were holding weapons of some sort and cast unfriendly gazes toward the outsiders.

D'Artagnan slouched lower in his saddle as the looks that were thrown his way ranged from unwelcoming to downright hostile.

Pierre alone looked untroubled by the atmosphere and confidently led the group towards the edge of the village.

Reaching the last of the houses and structures, they dismounted and tethered their horses to a nearby fence post.

Pierre glanced around, then pointed towards a clearing visible through a slight curtain of foliage and trees beyond the farthest house.

"There it is. The cave is on the other side of the clearing. At least, that's what I've heard."

Athos glanced around at the houses with a resigned look. A group of poor farmers approached the soldiers, holding pitchforks. A few carried ancient rust-covered muskets.

"Gentlemen," the former comte greeted easily, showing no outward sign of unease.

"Who are you?" the leader of the villagers asked.

"We are some of the king's musketeers," Aramis said.

"And so what?" the leader returned rudely. "What is your business here? Come to collect more taxes in the name of that great prig of a king?"

"You should choose your words more carefully," Pierre said, moving towards the men.

"For what?" the farmer demanded. "So that we can watch our friends and family starve around us while Louis the Just has servants devote themselves to fulfilling his every whim and those of his Spanish wife?"

Porthos had to hold a restraining arm against Aramis, who strode purposefully forward with fury blazing in his gaze at the mention of Anne.

"I think His Majesty would be most interested to hear what his loyal subjects were saying of him," d'Artagnan said, voice dripping with menace.

Almost all the farmers jolted visibly at this, and a few crossed themselves.

The leader looked on the verge of strangling the Gascon when Athos stepped between the two groups.

"Enough," he said in a tone that brooked no argument. "We shouldn't dwell on our differences, and on a subject where we all go too far. We haven't come here to impose a new tax or edict on you; we'd appreciate being able to pass peaceably through your settlement. We'll leave now," the musketeer finished, shooting a warning glare in Pierre's direction as he opened his mouth to protest.

"If you're not here on the King's business, why have you come?" another voice from the crowd of farmers piped up.

"We were told that there were some strange occurrences in the area," Athos said smoothly. "These rumors came from an _extremely_ questionable source and the individual responsible for the disreputable information will be reproached soundly, I assure you."

Pierre's look soured and he slouched where he stood.

"Are you here about the disappearances?" another voice came from within the group, this time a feminine one, querulous and feeble with age.

A withered old woman pushed her way through the crowd of men to stand in front of the soldiers.

"Ah, go on, Aggie," the leader said, looking uncomfortable. "This is none of your business."

The crone turned on the man, who visibly flinched and seemed to shrink away from her glare.

"It was my grandson that was spirited away, young man. It is my business, more than it is any of yours!"

"A child was taken?" Aramis asked, stepping towards the bent frame of the woman.

"Yes," she answered, voice uncharacteristically soft. "My grandson, Emil, disappeared two days ago. Last year before him, twins, two girls. Their mother still isn't well," the old woman said fretfully, pulling on the buttonhole of her coat in an absent sort of way.

"Now, look, Aggie," one of the men said carefully, not wanting to rouse her anger. "You know that those kids were just playing too close to the forest edge. They may have been taken by bandits or killed by animals. Begging your pardon, sirs," he added, seeing the musketeers grimace at the thought.

"They weren't spirited away by ghosts or specters of any kind. What happened to them was a horrible tragedy, but nothing unexplainable."

Other men in the group were nodding in agreement, and some even lowered their weapons slightly.

Aggie pulled herself as far upright as her bent figure would allow and looked at the men with all the venom she could summon.

"Blind, all of you," she hissed. "You refuse to see what's right in front of you. Well, these men will find the truth," she said, gesturing towards the musketeers with a gnarled finger.

"Now, wait a moment—" Porthos began. Aggie turned the full force of her furious scowl on him, and he immediately stopped talking.

"Show us where it happened," Athos said with resignation.

* * *

Aggie shuffled forward, leading the group of men. Despite her age, she moved with a spry grace.

She led the musketeers towards the edge of the town, then climbed into the thick foliage of the underbrush and trees without a glance back.

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow at Aramis, who shrugged and followed her. The others did likewise.

After about a hundred paces, they stepped into the edge of a clearing.

It was stunning. Wildflowers rose defiantly from the ground in crowds of flaming oranges and yellows to meet the azure sky.

The wind teased gentle fingers through the rippling waves of grass that competed with toadstools for space as gentle sunlight streamed onto everything.

Butterflies flitted to and fro while honeybees hummed tranquilly near the ground.

The achingly beautiful scene was in such contrast with the poverty-ridden village mere yards away that it made Athos blink.

"The children went into there," the old woman said softly, pointing.

On the opposite side of the clearing, about four hundred yards from where they stood, a dark cave waited ominously.

Imposing, it provided a stark disparity with its lovely surroundings. The meadow was full of light, the cave was darkness itself.

The clearing was full of fresh air; that which drifted from the mouth of the cave carried a mephitic odor from the very bowels of the earth.

"And they haven't since returned?" Aramis asked, confused.

Aggie shook her head. "They never return," she said in a trembling voice as her eyes turned watery with tears.

"Some five years ago, a man named Cuvelier went into those caves and disappeared. Search parties were sent, of course, although they never found anything. Weeks passed, and all the scouts would say that there were miles and miles of tunnel."

"There are other exits, throughout the countryside here, hidden in the labyrinth of whatever is down there, but they never found hide nor hair of him. A man might lose his way and wander around for days or even weeks without ever finding his way back out."

"All the children in the village are warned not to go near the caves, but some just get curious, I guess. We've all done things we oughtn't to when we're curious," Aggies said, sniffing into a filthy handkerchief she pulled from the folds of her skirt.

"They all wandered into the cave, and well. They got lost, surely. Some of the people in the village think Cuvelier's spirit is still haunting the tunnels, looking for the way out."

"A ghost?" Porthos asked uneasily. "They can't have been taken by a ghost."

"Aye, sir," Aggie said unhappily, fidgeting again. "I would have said so myself, if not for the unearthly shrieks and howls we hear, from time to time.

As the old woman spoke, a cloud passed over the sun, and the wind picked up slightly as if in deference to the dark events she spoke of.

"The wailing drifts over the clearing, through the forest, and into the village. Always in the dead of night carried on the coldest wind. No one is outside after dark here, and few will come even this close to the cave. The children didn't know any better, but many of the villagers think the earth inside is cursed. It's unclean, somehow."

The old woman shuddered and crossed herself without seeming to be aware of the action.

Pierre raised his eyebrows at Athos in a manner that portrayed his satisfaction at being correct in his rumors, although he looked mistrustfully at the gaping void of darkness across the clearing.

"Is there any way the villagers could lend us supplies to make torches?" Athos asked the old woman.

Aggie's mouth fell open, revealing blackened, mossy teeth.

"You're not going in there," she cried, mercifully obscuring the distasteful sight.

"I'm afraid we are," Aramis said mildly, looking at her. "We've got to follow through with a sort of wager we made. I should be very displeased if the other man should best us for want of a little exploratory action."

Pierre rolled his eyes and took a few steps away with a little huff of frustration.

"I…I can go and ask them," she said reluctantly. "But don't expect them to be too obliged to help you lot. Nothing personal, sirs, just the uniforms," she said respectfully.

"Anything you can offer us would be wonderful," Athos said smoothly, turning to accompany the old woman back to the village.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, enough firewood, fabric, and pitch had been surrendered grudgingly to the musketeers and they returned to the clearing.

Aramis struck flint and steel, causing his torch to alight in a brilliant flame. He touched it the other's and soon they were all ablaze.

By now, the midafternoon sun was starting to give way to the clouds. It would be dark in a few hours.

Aggie had bowed to them but steadfastly refused to go any farther than the edge of the clearing. Athos had thanked her for her help, and she had scurried back to the village as fast as her decrepit legs would carry her.

As the soldier's approached the cavern's entrance, d'Artagnan felt a tendril of unease creep up his back.

There was nothing to be afraid of. And yet…

As the Gascon stared into the cave, it seemed that the cave was staring back at him with a dark, unblinking eye.

Aramis looked similarly disquieted. Porthos was trying to hide his anxiety. Pierre crept forward with unabashed cautiousness.

Athos alone looked unperturbed as he stared into the depths of the cavernous space. At the entrance, the noxious odor of stagnant air was stronger. The darkness seemed more complete, and a deep sense of cold rose from the earth and into the bones of the soldiers.

They looked at one another, then Pierre snickered.

"If you want to stop—" he began.

"Enough," Porthos said, irritated by the man's constant sallies. "We said we would go."

"Well, fine then," Pierre said waspishly. "No need to get _tetchy_."

Stepping forward into the darkness, they disappeared from the view of the world and went into the gaping void.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:**_ Hi! So here's the second chapter (obviously). This is where the story starts earning its M rating. Ye have been warned.

Short story-time here; if you don't care, then feel free to jump straight to the reading. I don't mind :)

I grew up in northern Minnesota, where the biggest industry is iron ore mining. There's a place near where I lived called the Soudan Underground Mine, which lets people take tours to an old abandoned shaft mine. They take you underground in a rickety old elevator that holds seven or eight people, and then you walk around a half-mile under the earth's surface.

I was pretty young when I went, but I never forgot when the guide led us to a big cavern and turned off the lamp for a few moments to show us what it was like. I've still yet to come to another place that was just as cold. Or dark.

Anyway, I really wanted some of that to come through here. Most of this is still dramatized for the story; the underground mine in MN is really cool and not scary at all. If you ever get the chance to visit, go for it.

Disclaimer: I don't own the boys. Considering what this story is going to put them through, that's not necessarily a bad thing.

Any mistakes are mine alone. I know a lot of people may not be comfortable with the nature of this fic, but if anyone is interested in beta-reading, let me know! It could really use a second set of eyes.

Namaste.

* * *

Despite all five of the men carrying makeshift torches, the uncertain light that danced along the uneven walls of the cave barely scratched the darkness in front of them. Aramis held up his torch and inspected the walls. A colorless blend of light tans and grays made up the rough surface beneath his long fingers.

With every step, the oppressive feeling of rock pressing in on all sides grew stronger. Aramis found himself itching to turn around, to see the sun and breathe free air once again.

An edgy silence fell over the group, broken only by their echoing footsteps, the crackling of the burning torches and their rhythmic breathing.

As they moved farther into the tunnel, the air seemed to get thicker. It was also much colder. D'Artagnan could see his breath spiraling out into the air. Water dripped down the walls in icy rivulets.

Athos suddenly stopped.

"What is it?" Aramis asked quietly.

"Do you hear it?" Athos returned, cocking his head to the left.

Porthos listened. After a few moments, his eyes widened as he heard the sound.

"Is that—?" he started.

"Running water," D'Artagnan affirmed. "There must be a source nearby."

They continued walking. Porthos noted that the tunnel sloped to the left and downwards, leading them deeper into the earth.

The rushing sound of water grew stronger. As they continued, the tunnel got narrower until it forced the soldiers to walk in a single file line.

Athos led the way, with Aramis following, then Pierre. D'Artagnan trailed after him, and Porthos brought up the back of the group.

Pierre glanced around at the ceiling anxiously, hoping that there were no bats.

Fortunately for him, the cave's top was dominated only by stalactites. They hung down in pointed spikes which caught the firelight and glowed eerily.

Aramis had to constantly duck so as not to rap his head on the pointed growths. Even despite his best efforts, his scalp was soon a mass of angry grazes.

The tunnel constricted even further, and Porthos realized with a nasty jolt that his shoulders were scraping the sides of the cave uncomfortably.

"If it gets much tighter, I don't think—" he started, feeling more than a little claustrophobic.

"It doesn't," Athos' calm voice drifted back to him. "I can see that the tunnel widens up ahead. Have faith, Porthos."

"You're not the one that'll get stuck down here," the large musketeer grumbled to himself. Nonetheless, he kept moving.

Slowly, the walls receded and all of them breathed a little easier.

Athos led them further into the rock, and a draft of freezing, dank air surprised them all.

Suddenly, the tunnel led into a larger opening and became a gigantic cavern. They stood abreast of each other and held up their torches for a better look.

The ceiling was very high in this room, more than thirty feet and teeming with huge stalactites. The walls were lined with tunnel openings, each leading to a different angle further into the earth.

To their utter astonishment, a river streamed quietly to their left.

It didn't look extremely deep, but it was easily twenty feet wide and looked very cold. The current was fast and strong.

Slowly, they spread out across the room.

"Have you ever seen anything like this?" d'Artagnan asked the others.

Porthos shook his head, wide-eyed and Aramis also replied by a negative sign.

"There were caves near where I grew up," Pierre said quietly as if fearing to disturb the silence of the room. "Nothing like this, though."

"Athos, there are fish in the river!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, moving towards the water's edge.

The fish in the water fled from the torchlight as they approached. Aramis saw with distaste that they were almost entirely without pigment and glowed the unhealthy white of something never exposed to the sun's rays.

Pierre crouched at the river's edge and gazed intently into the water's icy depths. A fish jumped from the water and broke the surface, close to his face.

The recruit sprang backward, landing hard on the ground.

"_Mon Dieu_!" he breathed. "They don't have eyes!"

"Well, I don't suppose there's much use for them down here," Athos said in a reasonable tone.

Porthos stared at the eyeless sockets on the fish with morbid fascination.

Aramis pulled off a glove and dipped his fingers in the water, careful to keep them away from the unnatural-looking fish.

Bringing his fingers to his mouth, he grimaced slightly.

"The water is brackish. This river must meet with the sea at some point."

D'Artagnan backed away from the water's edge, suddenly unnerved at the ghastly, undulating shapes.

Something under his boot crunched and made him stumble. He dropped his torch and it rolled with a clatter across the rough stone floor.

The Gascon swore and snatched the burning wood from the ground. His stomach lurched as the floor was illuminated.

A few small bones littered the floor haphazardly. They were a dirty white color, streaked and grimy with dirt. Bits of decayed flesh and stringy tendon still clung to the bone in stubborn globs. Centipedes and beetles crawled ravenously over the bone, consuming the rotten flesh in tiny, incessant bites.

The others turned and all immediately froze in shock. Pierre made a retching sound and put a hand to his mouth.

Athos' normally stoic face registered shock as he knelt close to the grisly sight.

"These are human bones," Aramis murmured, looking at the rest of the soldiers grouped around him.

"They're so small," Porthos said with dismay.

"One of the missing girls?" d'Artagnan asked quietly.

"Looks that way," Athos replied.

"She probably got lost down here and starved," Pierre said, still looking sick.

"In pieces?" d'Artagnan asked, raising an eyebrow at him. "If she had just starved, the skeleton would be intact."

"Well, maybe she was washed away," Pierre replied quickly after thinking for a moment. "The river could have carried her bones for a great distance, and the fish-"

"No," Aramis said firmly. "You see these?" He pointed to small indentations in the bone that pitted its surface.

"These marks were made by teeth. The flesh was ripped away from the bone."

A loud, shrill shriek emanated from one of the tunnels to their left.

Porthos nearly leaped out of his skin and spun as fast as he could towards the sound.

The light from his torch flooded the entrance of the tunnel, revealing nothing but bland rock.

The oppressive silence of the cave suddenly seemed more ominous, broken only by their rapid breathing.

"Could've been an animal," Pierre said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Perhaps a mountain lion?"

"We haven't seen anything to indicate a large animal," Aramis replied, feeling ice run through his veins.

"Well, _something_ is down here!" the recruit snapped back. "Let's go!"

"Not yet," d'Artagnan said, looking at the tunnel opening. "The boy, Emil, wandered down here as well; he could still be alive. We should at least _try_ to find him."

Pierre's shoulders sagged. "Alright. The next time I get a great idea about looking for things in dark caves—"

D'Artagnan thought about making a smart comment but saw the miserable look of guilt on the cadet's face and bit his tongue.

Aramis picked up on the black mood and clapped Pierre's shoulder bracingly.

"Look at us all," Porthos said, trying to laugh. "Standing here like so many frightened women."

Athos smirked and motioned towards the tunnel farthest to their left, which the sound had come from.

They approached it cautiously. The opening was dark and unfathomably deep. Their torches provided feeble light and the walls further down remained obscured in shadow.

D'Artagnan swallowed and took a step forward. Then another. Another. Nothing but his steps echoed through the rock back to them.

Pierre followed after a moment. The others filed in quietly behind them.

Each soldier was silent and strained their hearing for any unusual sound in the tunnels.

Their boots echoed in sharp, incisive blows across the floor. Athos noted with some unease that the pitch smeared on their torches was almost half burned away. They wouldn't be able to stay underground with light for much longer.

The tunnel sloped downwards then forked.

"Which way?" d'Artagnan asked. His gaze flickered between the two tunnels.

"Does it matter?" Athos asked with a shrug. He stepped towards the left one, then pulled a piece of charcoal from his pocket.

He scraped it across the stone wall with a rasping sound and drew a black arrow pointing towards the tunnel they were about to enter.

"So we can find our way back," Athos said as Pierre looked at him with admiration.

They continued on. Pierre, buoyed by the momentary control on the situation, pushed past the others to lead the group.

It seemed that with each step, the cold in the tunnel became deeper and more chilling. Aramis shuddered and pulled his leathers tighter around himself.

They had been walking for another five minutes or so when Pierre stopped so suddenly that d'Artagnan bumped into his back.

"Did you hear it?" the recruit whispered.

The others stopped to listen. This time, they all heard it: soft, stealthy footfalls coming from behind them.

They gradually increased in volume as the creature crept in their direction through the darkness.

"It's blocking the exit!" Pierre exclaimed with dismay. "How did it get behind us? We were _following_ it!"

"Stay calm," Porthos ordered, reaching for his pistol.

"We need to get out of here!" Pierre whispered. His eyes were blown wide with fear, and he was shaking visibly.

The steps came closer; d'Artagnan could hear them padding quietly across the stone. Then the movement stopped.

"Let's try to go back to the opening," Athos said quietly, drawing his gun as well.

"Towards that thing?" Pierre protested in a vehement whisper.

"We don't have a choice," Porthos muttered. "It's the only way out."

Another slight scuffle. All the soldiers tensed. Pierre's frayed nerves snapped.

_"Come on!"_ he screamed at the darkened tunnel, startling the rest of the men badly.

The recruit took a few steps forward, brandishing his torch. In the brief flickering, he thought he saw a thin shape dart backward towards the shadow.

"There it is!" he cried, taking off at a run. His boots crunched across the floor as he darted after the figure.

"Pierre! Stop!" Athos yelled, starting after him. The others were right behind him, each moving as fast as they could. The light fled with the soldiers, causing grotesquely elongated shadows to dance on the walls.

* * *

Pierre ran hard through the tunnel, his breath coming in harsh gasps. He could still hear the minute noises of the thing in front of him. It scuttled every so often as it sprinted over the uneven rock floor.

The recruit ran as fast as he could. However, the thing was faster. The light never touched it, although Pierre could see its dim outline moving unerringly through the darkness.

He burst out of the tunnel and stopped for a moment at the intersection where Athos had drawn the arrow. A tiny avalanche of pebbles streamed down from a wall near the right-hand tunnel, and he rushed headlong after it.

D'Artagnan's lungs burned in his chest, although he kept his punishing pace. He came to the fork just in time to see the wildly dancing light disappearing down the opposite tunnel.

"Pierre!" he shouted, renewing his chase. Athos and the others followed, albeit a little slower.

The recruit followed the sprinting shape deeper into the darkness. The tunnel narrowed, then wound upwards and to the right.

Pierre followed the running shape relentlessly through the dark; he could hear its rhythmic panting as it fled from his pursuit.

The tunnel continued and noted in his haste that the stone path got narrower. The wall to the right remained by the floor. However, the ground to the left side dropped off until it became a gaping abyss.

The shadowy thing in front of him continued moving with frightening speed, obviously familiar with the tunnels.

Pierre tripped midstride over a jutting rock on the ground and sprawled painfully onto the floor. He scraped his chin over the rough surface, causing a deep graze on the soft flesh. His torch went flying out of his hand and rolled off the edge of the path, plunging into the depths. The light faded from the room and Pierre was plunged into pitch black.

He pulled himself upright with a pained grunt; his elbows and hands had been badly scraped and bruised as well. The blood dripped down from his chin to the ground in little coin-sized spatters.

He staggered forward, trying to feel his way to the sturdy rock wall on the right and keep away from the edge just feet away from him. His kneecap was singing with pain from the impact and screamed out every time he tried to step on that leg.

Breathing hard and forced to slow down, he crept forward in the absolute darkness.

His bloodied, raw fingertips scraped across the wall and left gory smears in his wake.

The tunnel was absolutely quiet and unearthly still. No air was stirred, save for that eddied by his frantic breathing.

Suddenly, he felt hot rancid breath on the back of his neck. He jerked away and screamed. The thing in the darkness sprang at him and they both tumbled to the ground.

Pierre grappled for strength with the creature desperately. Before he could process what was happening, his hands were pinned by his sides and a solid frame was pushing hard onto his chest and throat.

He scraped at the floor with his boots, trying to push himself away from the thing on top of him. He shoved hard backward and the ground disappeared from under his head and shoulders. His upper half hung over the edge of the path and he was painfully aware of the gaping void beneath him.

Something bony and thin touched his chin and he jerked away. Pierre heard a smaller wet rasping sound, that of a tongue flicking over a tasty morsel.

The recruit felt his mind totter on the edge of sanity and drew in a shallow breath to scream again.

He began the cry, and it was quickly cut off with a horrific gurgling.

The thing atop him didn't hesitate. It lowered its mouth to the thick, viscous stream of blood jetting from Pierre's throat and drank deeply. The frantic twitching of the unfortunate recruit's body slowed.

The creature bent over him again.

* * *

D'Artagnan followed the jumping, unsteady light from Pierre's torch. It had just faded away down the tunnel as the Gascon pelted after him.

Behind him, he could hear the other musketeers shouting for him to stop. D'Artagnan ignored them and kept going, knowing he would lose Pierre if he stayed still.

Suddenly, he heard a scream and the sound of a body hitting the floor. He redoubled his speed. His boots skittered across the loose pebbles of the ground as he rounded the corner to the right.

The path through the tunnel was still and quiet. The abyss lay in silent invitation to the left, contrasting with the solid security of a wall to the right. A crumpled body was slumped aginst the wall near the middle of the path.

D'Artagnan felt another bright rush of fear and sprinted towards the figure. He dropped to his knees and gasped as the torchlight fell upon the corpse.

Pierre's throat had been torn out and showed a gory mess of white tissue clotted with dark congealed blood.

The bright red blood had spilled out onto his clothing and stained his front in a garish flood. However, that wasn't the worst.

What was left of the recruit's face was frightfully pale and bloodstained.

The right side of his face had been almost completely torn away, starting at the scalp and ending underneath the shelf of his jaw. Patches of blood-flecked bone were exposed on his forehead. The skin was horribly shredded around his right eye, which was missing from the socket.

D'Artagnan noted with growing terror that the lips had been ripped off, leaving a gruesome rictus grin of exposed teeth. Gleaming blood and loose tissue dribbled downwards toward his chin.

The left eye, intact and untouched, shone dully in a fixed accusatory stare.

The Gascon felt a wave of faintness wash over him. Dimly, he heard running footsteps behind him. He backed away from the awful sight in uncoordinated, jerky movements. His boots stuttered and he stumbled towards the chasm. His torch slipped from numb fingers and his hands clumsily closed on empty air.

D'Artagnan's eyes closed, and then a strong pair of arms caught him and hauled him back to safety. The Gascon couldn't find the strength to speak or move and sank to the ground.

He became aware of the arms still encircling him, and that he was leaned against a chest that had a strong, racing heartbeat. He started struggling then, flailing his arms and legs because Pierre was dead and the blood was everywhere and his face was gone and _oh God the blood._

A familiar voice coming from a far distance. "Steady, d'Artagnan. Breathe."

And he _did_ breathe then, a shuddering gasp that left his body shaking.

Gentle hands were helping him sit up, and he opened his eyes to find Aramis looking at him in concern.

"Just sit for a moment," the medic told him. D'Artagnan nodded and pulled a rattling breath into his lungs.

"Slower," Athos admonished lightly. The Gascon did his best to obey.

"Dear God," Porthos said, feeling queasy at the horrible sight of Pierre's body.

Aramis had gone almost as pale as the corpse but stooped down to examine the body. His fingers hovered over the cuts and abrasions on Pierre's stiffening hands but refused to touch the body. The musketeer looked at the gaping horror of his throat, then at the bloodstains.

Tilting his head around the body, he looked at the walls around the corpse, saw the bloody tracks Pierre's movements had left and swore.

"What?" Athos asked more sharply than intended. The tension was making him jumpy, and the absolute silence of the tunnel preyed on him more than any incessant noise could have.

"This stain here—" he pointed to the floor near where d'Artagnan's outstretched legs rested. "There's too much blood. This is where his throat was, well." He wiped his hands compulsively down his legs.

"Did you find him there, d'Artagnan?" Porthos asked with dread, catching on to what the musketeer was saying.

"I—" the Gascon had to break off and clear his throat. "I didn't touch him."

Waves of revulsion crawled over his body and nausea clawed at him. He curled his body up and swallowed compulsively, fighting to keep the contents of his stomach down. Athos grimaced in sympathy.

"His body was moved after he was attacked. Something leaned him up against that wall," Aramis said, eyes dark with worry.

They looked at each other in the flickering light from the three remaining torches.

The chasm pulled at the silence in the air, making the void deeper and more complete.

And from the depths of the tunnel, the thing in the dark was patiently biding its time.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:**_ Hi! Chapter 3 is here.

**_Huge_** thanks to everyone who has read/reviewed/alerted to this story! I didn't think this one would get a whole lot of attention, but you, wonderful readers, have proved me wrong.

Special shoutouts to pallysd'Artagnan, Deana (virtual high-five to a fellow Trekkie!), sourdough101, and the wonderful guest UIa. Your reviews are great, and I'm really glad you're enjoying it so far! I'll try to make the next few chapters interesting for you.

Strap in, cuz it only gets worse from here. Or better, depending on your point of view. This is one is a bit shorter than the others, but the next few are almost ready to be posted. Fear not, dear reader. The only ones being left in the dark are our boys :)

All mistakes are still mine, these boys are still not mine. 'Cept for the unfortunate little guy.

Namaste.

* * *

D'Artagnan stood up on shaky legs and averted his gaze from the mutilated body.

"Are you alright now?" Athos asked him, gripping his elbow to steady him.

The Gascon nodded. "Sorry," he muttered, embarrassed.

He was a soldier; blood and death weren't unfamiliar to him. However, this wanton destruction, a human being torn and shredded almost beyond recognition...

Aramis shook his head as if catching the tenor of his thoughts. "Don't apologize. There is something unholy here."

Porthos still looked sickened as he answered, "Yeah, you could say that."

"Unholy or not, there _is_ something down here," Athos said quietly. "Our torches won't last for much longer. We should leave while we can still find our way."

D'Artagnan looked at the three remaining torches and saw the flames sputter weakly.

If the pitch burned away before they were able to leave, they would be at the mercy of the darkness and the creature who skulked through the tunnels.

Then he thought of what it would be like for a small child.

His heart, which had been quailing at the notion of being trapped down here in the dark, hardened into something fiercely protective.

"We can't leave yet." The words were out in a tumble of cold breath before he could stop them.

The other soldiers looked up at him in shock, but d'Artagnan just set his jaw in the stubborn lines they had all come to recognize.

"Emil is down here. He only went missing two days ago; he may still be alive."

"D'Artagnan, we can't help anyone if we get lost ourselves," Aramis said, not unkindly.

"We can't leave him with that—that _thing_!" The Gascon snapped, temper getting the best of him. "It would be the same as if we had killed him ourselves."

Aramis turned to look at Athos and saw a man in the crushing embrace of indecision, caught between two unacceptable courses.

To stay was almost unthinkable. Wandering around in darkness more absolute than any they had known, just waiting for the moment when a hand closed around your throat sounded more horrible than almost anything he could imagine.

But to go would mean abandoning a child to this hellish fate, a sacrificial lamb offered on the altar of abject cowardice.

"D'Artagnan is right," Athos said in a hoarse voice, shoving down a hot rush of self-loathing at having considered leaving. "If the boy is still alive, it's up to us to find him and bring him back to safety. He could be hurt."

"Or he could be dead!" Porthos snapped, dark eyes reflecting something the others rarely saw—fear. "We should leave while we can!"

"If you truly believe that's the right thing to do, then go. We won't stop you, "Aramis said quietly.

Porthos looked at the others. None of the faces around him reflected judgment, just a tender, aching understanding.

The large musketeer sighed in frustration.

"Well, come on, then," he exclaimed angrily. "Since you're all so eager, let's leave our bones here in this godforsaken place."

Athos smiled, and Aramis patted his shoulder as they lifted their torches to continue down the tunnel.

* * *

Not much was said as they traversed the rocky terrain. The light from the torches burned lower, taking longer to illuminate their surroundings in weak, orange light. The tunnel wound deeper and deeper.

D'Artagnan's feet began to feel like blocks of ice in his boots. He had stuffed his hands into his pockets to conserve heat, but he could feel them becoming sluggish and numb.

They reached another fork, and Athos chose to go to the right this time. He marked it with another arrow and continued calmly.

Porthos had ceased to care where they were going, only trudged miserably behind the group. The cold had begun to eat into his bones, causing injuries long healed to cry out in pain.

Another turn. Then another. A twist to the left marked by Athos' charcoal. Continue straight. Nothing seemed to matter except that the torches burned lower and lower.

Just as they were rounding another corner, Aramis' torch sputtered. The Gascon saw that all the pitch had burned off with a sick kind of horror. They all froze as the flame struggled futilely for a moment, then went out.

"Damn it," Aramis muttered, lowering the stick to his side. D'Artagnan threw him a bleakly sympathetic glance, and they continued.

The tunnel ended abruptly ahead. Athos leaned close to inspect the damage.

"Dead end. It looks like this caved in many years ago," he said, looking at the untouched layer of thick dust coating the loose rubble.

"Let's go back to the last cavern; we'll try the tunnel to the left," Porthos said.

They retraced their steps to the last larger opening they had passed. Once there, they looked about.

Several tunnel entrances lined the walls, but thanks to Athos' careful drawings, they chose the correct one. They continued down the tunnel but soon stopped again.

Aramis' mouth dropped in disbelief: they were back in the cavern they had started from.

Somehow they had walked in a circle; he could see Athos' charcoal marks standing starkly on the opposite wall near an adjacent tunnel.

"Let's try to retrace our steps back to the river?" Porthos asked uneasily.

"Good idea," Athos agreed, striding forward.

He hurried back into the room and stopped to look closely at his markings to prevent another mistake.

After a moment of careful consideration, he chose the path confidently.

D'Artagnan was hurrying along behind the former comte when he stopped so suddenly that the Gascon slammed into him.

"Athos, hurry up!" D'Artagnan said. "Let's get back to the—"

His voice trailed off as he saw the dull rocks blocking their path: they were back at the first caved-in tunnel.

"Oh, dear God, no," the Gascon whispered through numb lips. "Please, no."

"Turn around," Athos said harshly, raising his voice so it was heard by the others.

They went back to the cavern with the multiple tunnel entrances.

Athos leaned close to insect his drawings in the dying torchlight and the blood drained from his face.

"What is it?" Aramis asked in quick concern.

"Something changed my markings," Athos said in a shaking voice. "They're pointing the opposite way now. See, they're smudged near the ends as if something rubbed them out, and then drew the heads in a different direction."

A shocked silence fell over the group. With a sound like a tiny sigh, Porthos' torch died out and the flame was extinguished.

Athos alone held a single torch aloft, a tiny beacon of hope and life against the all-encompassing darkness surrounding them.

"Which way now?" d'Artagnan asked in a small voice.

Aramis looked around with a pained grimace.

"Let's look into the last few tunnels, then circle back around towards the river," Athos said tersely, burying any feelings of fear or apprehension. Staying calm was essential.

He didn't have to add the words they were all thinking: _before the light goes out. _

* * *

They were just rounding another corner through the third tunnel when something slammed into the Gascon with a wild cry.

Cursing, he stumbled back and struck his head hard against the tunnel wall.

His vision swam and a loud buzzing filled his ears as he fought desperately with whatever was on top of him. He heard the others around him give various shouts of surprise as if from a great distance.

Stunned, D'Artagnan's fingers blindly reached out and brushed against rough cloth. Almost reflexively, his fingers closed on the fabric in an iron grip. He pulled hard and managed to wrestle his assailant to the ground where they landed in a tangled heap.

Rolling, the Gascon pinned his attacker beneath him and raised his fist.

"D'Artagnan, stop!" Athos commanded from above him as he hurried over.

The torchlight fell over them and the young musketeer realized he was fighting a child.

He was a young boy of nine or ten years. His heels drummed desperately on the stone floor and sounds of panic issued loudly from his throat. Tears borne of sheer terror streamed from his eyes and made clean tracks through the settled grime on his face.

The Gascon immediately got off the boy and helped pull him upright to a sitting position.

The boy scrambled away from him and curled up against the wall, near a small indent in the rock where he had been hiding.

"Easy," Aramis said, kneeling down to look at him. "We won't hurt you. Are you Emil?"

The child looked up and nodded.

In the dingy light, Athos saw that the boy was barefoot and dressed only in a ragged shirt and a pair of threadbare trousers. The tips of Emil's fingers and toes were tinged dusty blue-gray with the cold. His feet were badly bruised and cut from two days of stumbling over sharp rocks.

The light passed over his thin face and accentuated the jutting bones around his eye sockets and mouth. It made him look vulnerable and very young.

He shivered in a miserable ball and looked at the soldiers silently.

Athos shrugged off his cloak and immediately wrapped it around the boy, who curled it around himself tighter.

Aramis dug into his pocket and found a small apple. "Here."

Emil snatched it from his hand and devoured it in a few bites.

"We went to the village; your grandmother told us about you," Porthos told Emil as the boy looked up at him fearfully.

"We came to rescue you," Aramis added while Athos helped a wincing d'Artagnan stand.

"It's too late," Emil said in a broken whisper. "I've tried to get out; I've been down here for a long time. And it's so dark and cold."

He sniffled pitifully into Athos' cloak, still shivering.

"The tunnels just keep going on and on. And there's something down here. I can hear it breathing and making noise sometimes. I ran away, but it always knows where we are..."

The boy's thin shoulders hitched with dry sobs, too worn out for tears and looked at the musketeers with bleak eyes.

Porthos knelt and took Emil's small, freezing hands into his own. Rubbing them vigorously and blowing on them, the life returned to the frozen appendages. With it came pain.

Emil hissed at the sharp needle-like pricking feeling but didn't try to pull away. After a few minutes, he could at least move his hands and flex his fingers a little.

"Do you think you can walk?" Athos said, looking at the child.

Emil nodded dumbly, climbing to his feet.

"Don't worry, we'll get out," Aramis told him reassuringly.

"How?" Emil asked plaintively. His mouth trembled in uncertain lines and he looked ready to burst into tears again.

Aramis didn't miss a beat. "Well, we got through here and found you, didn't we?" he said in a cheerful tone. "Can I tell you a riddle?"

To his astonishment, the boy ducked his head in chagrin.

"I never was much good at those," he admitted. "_Grand-mere_ used to ask me all the time. She's great at them."

"I'll bet," d'Artagnan muttered, remembering the shrewd old woman.

"How far can you walk into the forest, Emil?" Aramis asked, ignoring the Gascon.

The boy's face screwed up in serious contemplation.

"As many leagues a day as you can manage, I suppose," the boy answered after a pause.

"I could go two or three leagues, but you could do more because you're bigger than me." He held up his arms to indicate the height of the musketeer.

Porthos chuckled at the literal answer and Aramis smiled.

"No. You can only walk half-way into the forest," the handsome medic said. "After that, you're walking _out_. It's the same thing here. We walked half-way through to find you. Now we just need to walk the other half back out."

Emil's eyes widened in understanding and he looked at the musketeer in awe.

"Is that true?" he asked.

"Of course," Aramis said easily.

"What if that thing comes back to get us?" Emil asked doubtfully.

"That's why I'm here," Porthos said.

The boy looked the large musketeer up and down, still looking unconvinced.

"Besides, I don't think you have to worry," Porthos continued. "It looked like you almost knocked d'Artagnan out when you jumped out like that."

"Nearly," the Gascon admitted, wincing as he felt a rising bump on the back of his head.

Athos' mouth twitched at the raillery. "Are we ready?"

Emil stood up, wiped his nose, and nodded.

They set off once again, spirits lifted even though the situation was worse than before.

Athos led the way, still holding their sole torch. Porthos got behind him, then Aramis, followed by little Emil.

D'Artagnan brought up the rear of the group, keeping a sharp eye and ear tuned to the encroaching darkness around them.

The only sound for a few minutes was their mingled intakes of breath and soft steps.

It started so faintly that the Gascon thought he was imagining it. A subsonic groan that was felt rather than heard. It gradually increased in volume and became a rumble like thunder.

Fine dust began filtering from the ceiling and mixed with bitter mineral water. It fell in heavy spatters of freezing mud onto the hapless soldiers.

Athos looked up and saw the first shelf of fragile rock above them begin to crumble.

"It's a cave-in!" he yelled, choking on the dust. "Get out!"

He burst forward, trying to outrun the moment when the ceiling fell. Aramis and Porthos hurried behind him.

Emil rushed forward after them, and d'Artagnan saw the heavy rock above him beginning to fall.

His hand snaked out and caught hold of the boy's collar, yanking him back a mere second before the ceiling collapsed where he had been standing.

The Gascon pulled Emil close, then crouched and shielded the boy's body with his own as the world fell down around them.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N:**_ Hi guys! I'm really sorry about how long this took to post. I wanted to get most of the next one written before I posted this one, and I'm currently in the process of packing to move across the country next week. It's exciting, but also time-consuming :).

This one is shorter, but I hope everyone enjoys anyway. Just leading into the action.

Undying gratitude to anyone taking the time to read, favorite, follow or leave a review. To our newcomers, beeblegirl and arduna (love your name!), welcome! I hope you enjoy what's to come.

Whichever Standard Disclaimer you think applies here, go for it. If I owned them, you can bet there'd be more canon than five books and three seasons of TV.

Namaste.

* * *

At first, there was nothing. Not even the barest memory of light or warmth had ever held sway here.

_The dust slowly settled over his closed eyelids. _

There was no perception of time, space or feeling; the universe itself wasn't something that could be made tangible.

_The boy felt around in the dark for the soldier, mind reeling with the thought of being alone once more._

A small spark of consciousness blinked back into existence as if it had never left. Explored the vastness within like a river. Liquid night flowed peacefully out to infinity and pooled.

_He sobbed in terror, pulling hard on the man's hand who did not answer his calls._

The spark expanded until it became something else entirely. The rot of the stars. The detritus of an indifferent universe plummeting to land on dead earth, frozen for epochs uncounted.

Then sensation filtering through his broken perception. Followed by another.

He was being shaken. Pulling on his shoulders. Pain. Blinding pain, filling his head, his body, making it harder and harder to breathe.

Earth covered him, was all around him. He was a prisoner, held captive in the eighth circle of Hell, suffocated and immolated for all eternity.

Slowly, d'Artagnan's head cleared enough for him to realize he wasn't dead. Emil was crying in fright, calling his name for the twelfth or thirteenth time.

The Gascon tried to answer and choked on the dust and rock filling his mouth and lungs. With a herculean push, he managed to shift the rubble and the awful pressure was gone.

Just pulling in oxygen seemed like a minor miracle, and he gratefully heaved in breath after breath of freezing air.

A tiny fist was squeezing his hand with all its might. He squeezed back lightly, and the anguished cry of relief was something he would remember until his last day.

He opened his eyes. The tunnel was pitch black; the only torch had been with...

He stumbled to his feet and promptly collapsed again, clutching his head in pain.

A loud buzzing noise seemed at the forefront of his perception and he could only blink back tears of pain and gasp as a warm ribbon of blood dripped onto his face from a deep gash near his temple.

The boy was at his side again, asking him frantically if he was alright.

D'Artagnan pushed him aside as gently as he could and got to his feet again. He leaned heavily against the wall as he swayed drunkenly over the loose rubble by his feet. Eventually, his hand met something solid in front of him.

His tongue was gritty and caked with dust.

"A—" he tried to yell and immediately broke off into a hacking cough that left his head spinning once again.

"Athos!" he managed a hoarse, broken call a little above a whisper.

Coughing, he tried again. "Aramis! Porthos!"

Only silence and the minute shifting of rock answered him.

"Athos!" he called again, louder this time.

"D'Artagnan!" he heard Porthos' faint yell answer him.

"Are you alright?" the Gascon yelled, knowing his voice wouldn't last for much longer.

"We're not hurt too badly," Porthos yelled back. "Is the boy alright?"

"He's fine," d'Artagnan called, voice cracking with strain.

"Try to go back through the tunnel towards the main cavern. Choose the tunnel fourth to the left, then follow it until you find the river."

Aramis' voice this time, muffled by the heavy rock.

"What about you?" the Gascon whispered, unable to yell. Emil repeated the question, yelling for him.

"We can't dig through this, there's too much," Porthos bellowed. "We'll just have to follow this tunnel down farther and hope it joins up with another. Don't worry about us; get the child out! There could be another cave-in at any time!"

"A-thos," d'Artagnan whispered again, feeling strange and disjointed as he sagged against the wall.

"He wants to know about Athos!" Emil shouted with all his might.

"I'm fine, d'Artagnan," a weak call answered the anxious Gascon. "Take the boy. We'll meet you out there. Be careful."

D'Artagnan breathed out and closed his eyes. A crushing sense of exhausted relief pummeled him, and his legs threatened to give out again.

After a good minute, he was able to gather his strength and stand.

Feeling around in the darkness, he took Emil's cold hand and began walking through the darkness-filled tunnel towards the exit.

On the other side of the collapsed tunnel, Athos struggled to stand.

His head ached and the world seemed to be rolling underneath his feet.

He took two steps and fell to his knees, sending a bright bolt of pain up his knee that had been twisted and buried underneath the rubble.

"Athos, slow down," Aramis admonished, thinking of using the powder from his pistol for light and rejecting the idea. Better to save it until truly needed.

The medic's shoulder gave a painful twinge, but he ignored his own discomfort to crouch beside the former comte.

"You were out for a while. The rocks—"

"Could be coming down again any second," Athos slurred, swaying on his knees. "We have to get out, have to..."

Aramis caught him as he fell and laid him gently on the ground.

Athos closed his eyes, feeling as though he was going to be sick.

Sweat dripped down his brow despite the chill and he clenched his jaw painfully to stop the scream of pain trapped behind his teeth.

Porthos could feel the man shaking. Gradually, the trembling slowed as Athos was lulled into oblivion despite the calls of his brothers.

* * *

D'Artagnan pulled himself painfully along the wall, bumping his aching shoulder against the solid rock. That was good. The pain was helping him stay focused. His head hummed with the buzzing that never seemed to stop.

Emil bumped over the uneven ground after him, trying desperately to keep up in the absolute darkness.

The young boy tripped over a loose rock in the darkness and fell on his face. Hot blood ran from his nose in a coppery stream. He began to cry, letting out thin wails.

D'Artagnan immediately dropped to his knees and found him in the darkness. The musketeer pushed his hand hard against the child's mouth, smothering the sounds.

The child kicked; thrashed; pushed himself hard against the musketeer. The Gascon didn't yield.

He pressed his lips to Emil's ear and whispered fiercely, "Would you live? Then stop! Stop!"

The boy's struggles continued until every limb trembled with exhaustion and he was forced to stop. Warm blood continued to fall onto d'Artagnan's hand in thick drops. The soldier closed his eyes, resting his chin on top of the boy's head.

Eventually, they stumbled to their feet.

The boy spit some of the coppery liquid out and felt around for d'Artagnan's hand again, grimly ignoring the bright lances of pain bolting through his entire face.

D'Artagnan grasped his thin fingers and they continued down the tunnel.

D'Artagnan kept his ears tuned to their surroundings. Despite the pain in his head, he felt almost preternaturally alert now that he was moving. The labyrinthian tunnels were like a living, breathing thing. He could feel every shift and groan of the rock, every vibration in the walls and floor. Even the minute scuttling of insects at his feet and on the walls seemed inordinately clear.

He followed the tunnel carefully, picturing the way back in his mind's eye. The tunnel twisted to the right and then opened further.

D'Artagnan knew they were back in one of the main caverns because of how differently the sound echoed here. He could picture the high ceilings teeming with dirty stalactites. His heart leaped in his chest; it was just as Aramis had said.

He felt along the wall to the left, blindly reaching out until he felt a draft. _One_, he thought. A few more steps and another gust of cold air. _Two_.

When he found the fourth tunnel opening, he felt blindly along the right side at shoulder-height.

He had to fumble in the darkness, scrabbling uselessly until his fingers touched something thick and greasy feeling.

Bringing his fingertips to his nose, he smelled charcoal.

"This is it," he croaked to Emil, who drew in a sharp breath.

They continued walking. By this time, Emil was completely exhausted and barely managed to keep his feet. He stumbled over the rocks, listening to the blood rush in his ears and feeling light-headed.

"Please," he gasped breathlessly. "I can't—" that was as far as he got before he tripped over another portion of the uneven rock.

His abused body braced itself for another impact against the unforgiving ground when strong arms swooped him up.

D'Artagnan hefted the boy into his arms, who was still wrapped in Athos' cloak. Grunting with the weight of his burden, he continued down the tunnel.

Not far now.

* * *

Athos jolted awake with a start, nearly knocking his head with Aramis' in the darkness.

"Are you alright?" Aramis asked in quick concern as the comte panted harshly.

"How long was I out?" Athos asked thickly, intentionally ignoring the question.

"Not long," Porthos replied. "Ten minutes, maybe? It's hard to tell time down here."

"We have to get moving," Athos said in a strained voice, hauling himself to his feet.

"You shouldn't—" Aramis said, alarmed.

"We don't have time!" Athos snapped back. "That thing could be headed right for d'Artagnan! We need to get back to him!"

"I thought I heard it following us, right before the ceiling caved," Porthos said hopefully. "Maybe it was killed in the collapse."

"No, it's still down here," Athos said tiredly. "Something like that wouldn't die so easily."

"This tunnel might not even join up with the others," Aramis reminded him quietly.

Athos started to retort when he stopped, listening intently.

Porthos and Aramis strained their ears.

"I'll be damned," Porthos said, voice equal parts awe and relief when he heard it.

Aramis kissed the somewhat dented cross around his neck with shaking hands.

"The river," Athos said in a weary voice. "It's close by. We can follow it back."

They set off at a shambling pace. Athos limped badly but led the group. Every sense was now focused on finding the source of running water that led to the entrance. He only hoped they would be soon enough.

* * *

D'Artagnan hurried along as fast as his aching body could allow. Emil was limp in his arms.

The Gascon could feel the child's heart thrumming strong and fast through his thin shirt. The exhales of his breath tickled d'Artagnan's exposed neck.

He was moving on instinct alone. After a time, he could almost manage to _feel_ his way through the total darkness.

The acoustics in the tunnel gave him an idea of when it turned and twisted. Relying on the mental map he had made when entering, they managed to avoid serious mishaps.

D'Artagnan stepped forward and his right foot slipped off solid ground and into empty air. A jolt of recognition hit him, took his breath away. Pierre had met his ghastly demise on this path.

He sprang backward quickly, heart beating so hard in his chest that it hurt.

"Emil," he whispered to the child in his arms. "We're walking across the stone path through this cavern. There's a big pit to the right side. It's very narrow; I need you to walk in front of me so I can make sure neither of us falls. Keep your left hand on the wall beside you. Lean that way as much as you can until you get to the end, do you understand?"

"Yes," the child whispered back. They had no choice.

* * *

They approached the water's edge, stumbling blindly around in the dark. Porthos cursed as he stepped into the river with one foot and nearly fell in.

"We can follow the river back to the entrance if we swim against the current," Athos said, remembering the direction of the water.

"God, it's cold!" Porthos muttered between clenched teeth, imagining the icy current enveloping his entire body.

"What would you have?" Aramis asked helplessly. "It's better than the alternative."

Athos loosened his belt and held his pistols and bullets above his head to protect them from the depths.

"Let's go," he said tonelessly before dropping into the water.

Nothing could have prepared him for the icy needles that bit their way into his flesh and stole his breath.

Gasping in reflex, he tried to calm down. The river's current was strong, and he couldn't touch the bottom here.

He heard the muffled gasps of Aramis and Porthos as they fell in beside him.

Still holding his guns aloft, he began swimming against the flow, towards the unknown.

* * *

D'Artagnan took the boy's hand in his own and guided it to the wall.

"Start walking and don't stop. No matter what," he told the boy seriously.

Emil stood on shaking legs, hesitated. Then he moved forward. His scraped hand grazed across the wall, keeping him close. Another slow step. And another.

The musketeer followed close enough to catch him if he were to stumble, but far enough back to protect their rear. There was something different this time, he could feel it.

His head pounded sickly in time with his racing heart and he fought to control his breathing and remain calm.

He heard Emil stumble and gasp. D'Artagnan quickly caught his elbow, but the boy was already clinging to the left wall.

He hurriedly pushed the boy across the area, not wanting to think about slipping in Pierre's cold blood. He stumbled over the stiff, outstretched limbs of his dead comrade and walked on.

They were about half-way across when a scuttling noise sounded from behind them.

"Emil, run!" d'Artagnan cried in as loud a voice as he could manage and simultaneously drew his pistol.

He spun quickly and pulled the trigger.

* * *

The cold water stole the breath that rattled between chattering teeth. It ached as it passed through Aramis' chest. He couldn't remember ever feeling this cold in his life.

Athos' harsh breathing resounded from his right, over the incessant babble of the water. Through the darkness, they swam further into the icy depths. Suddenly, a cold clammy hand gripped Aramis' wrist and pulled him closer. Athos guided the medic's numb fingers to a rocky shelf, where he clung to it with all his waning strength.

Porthos swam up and felt the shelf too, grabbing on.

"We'll have to go underneath this tunnel to reach the entrance," Athos shouted to be heard above the rushing din.

"It's completely filled!" Aramis cried back, shivering desperately. "We don't know how far underwater it goes; it could be miles! We'd never make it!"

"We can't turn back now!" Athos yelled.

"Well, make up your damn minds!" Porthos snapped. "It's too cold to argue for much longer."

He was right. The cold was sapping their strength. Athos could feel his resilience ebbing with every pull of the icy water. It would be too easy to let himself be carried away by the current.

Sucking in a shuddering breath as deep as his tired lungs would allow, the eldest musketeer allowed himself to be completely submerged beneath the surface.

Freezing water kissed the underside of Aramis' jaw as he dived alongside his brothers.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N:**_ Hi! The next installment is here! Honestly, I feel like it was a bit rushed. Does anyone else feel that way? Leave a few words if you think it needed work. I need you to level with me; I know this one was a little rough.

Anyways. I'm still completely blown away with the support this fic is getting, you guys! Thank you! Your reviews are wonderful.

I've tried to keep it somewhat accurate factually. CPR wasn't formally taught until the 1950s as a life-saving technique, but even the ancient cultures in Egypt and China knew about mouth-to-mouth because drowning was a fairly commonplace accident. Also, it takes about 20 minutes for coal to get hot enough to produce flames. Pretend it's a little less because our boys don't have that kind of time.

Hope everyone enjoys this next chapter. Another one to come soon with the basic "wrap-it-up" stuff particular to mysteries, etc.

Until then, pleasant dreams ;)

I own nothing but the grammatical inaccuracies.

Namaste.

* * *

_"...with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile that Judas in hell might be proud of."_

_-Bram Stoker's Dracula._

* * *

In the split-second of light that the pistol fire provided, d'Artagnan caught a horrifying glimpse of what had been stalking them through the darkness. His shot went wild.

His breath caught in his throat and the thing snarled and leaped.

It slammed into the Gascon, its shoulder driving into his chest. D'Artagnan toppled backward on the ground, and the creature landed on top of him, knocking all the air from his lungs. His spent pistol was knocked out of his hands.

The Gascon wheezed painfully for breath, stunned for the space of a heartbeat. He punched out blindly at its face and his knuckles connected hard. Bone met bone, and pain sang through his whole arm.

A cold, clammy hand pinned his left hand to the floor with a frightening strength despite his struggles.

Hot, reeking breath washed over his face and neck, as the creature's mouth descended. The Gascon could sense it moving towards the racing heart in his exposed chest.

In a moment of blind panic, he threw his arm to the right. D'Artagnan's fingertips brushed against a stiff arm. He quickly grasped the limb and yanked it hard, pulling Pierre's body so it lay across his chest.

The mouth ripped mindlessly into the cadaver it had already partially consumed. The rigid flesh tore away from the body with a thick, peeling sound. Appalling sounds of ravenous chewing filled the air as the creature worked its jaws around the dead muscle tissue.

A mouthful of cold blood sprayed over the Gascon's face as the thing let out a furious howl at being tricked. D'Artagnan heaved with all his might and managed to free his left hand.

The thing snarled again, but the musketeer had already pulled his legs up. Planting them on the thing's midsection he kicked hard, and the creature flew off him and into the abyss to the left with a haunting cry of unrestrained rage that echoed as it fell.

D'Artagnan didn't wait to hear the thing hit the bottom. He shoved Pierre's mutilated body off carelessly and scrambled to his feet.

Emil was lying on the ground nearby, pale and nearly catatonic with fright. The Gascon hefted the unresponsive boy into his arms and moved as fast as he dared across the rest of the path.

Once reaching solid ground once more, he practically flew across the ground.

His heart thundered in his ears, and his arms shook with the strain of the young boy's weight. He fancied that he could hear the rasping breath of that bloodthirsty creature behind him with every step. He fled into the darkness.

And behind him, the thing rolled to a stop at the bottom of the ravine and lay stunned for a few moments. When it pulled itself upright again, indescribable hatred flared brightly in its demonic face. It limped forward in a shambling run and began its pursuit again.

* * *

His lungs were on fire. His muscles ached and cramped in the freezing water. Porthos pulled his arms through the water and kicked violently, not thinking about anything except the wordless need to escape the fatal surrounding.

The water dulled sound and sensation and thought; the cold took everything.

Desperately, he fought the need to breathe. Seconds ticked by. A buzzing sounded in his ears. Still no air. Moving was agony. His chest pulled spasmodically, although he refused to let in the water. Just as he was about to suck in a deadly mouthful of water, the numb fingers on his left hand hit a blast of air colder than the water around him.

With one last kick that exhausted his strength, he broke the surface. His burning chest heaved, gulping in lungful after lungful of breath. His frozen fingers brushed against something hard. After a long moment, he realized it was the bank of the underground river. A slimy fish brushed against him and he recoiled in disgust.

It was several more minutes in the life-stealing water until he heaved himself onto the rock and pulled until he was completely out.

He lay on the hard rock beneath him. Everything hurt. Breathing hurt. The thrumming heartbeat in his chest hurt. His muscles seized and cramped fiercely, causing him to groan and gasp in agony.

Porthos' sense of reality faded, and he began to feel the cold less and less. His surroundings faded. He teetered on the very edge of consciousness when something cut through the dark curtain in his mind.

Nearby, he could hear Athos frantically calling Aramis' name in a slurred voice.

That brought him out of it. He was painfully aware of the freezing cave and the various aches throughout his body that made themselves known once more.

He crawled over to the source of the noise.

Aramis was lying prone on the ground, cold and unmoving.

Athos was shaking him, calling his name in increasingly frantic tones of desperation.

Porthos pushed himself over to his friend's side and laid his ear to the medic's chest.

After a moment, a faint, irregular heartbeat made its way to his ears. Porthos brought a shaking hand up and over Aramis' face.

There was no breath to stir the air on his hand.

The large musketeer leaned back on his heels and his mind flashed back to a sunny day years ago when Aramis had told him how to save someone from drowning.

_Tilt the head back. _

_Why?_

_So the air can get through. _

Porthos tilted his friend's head back gently and bent closer.

_You breathe into their mouth?_

_Well, if they aren't taking in any breath, yes. _

Porthos pressed his mouth to Aramis' cold lips and blew. He waited a moment, then blew again.

_Does it work?_

No movement.

_Sometimes. _

Athos was seated next to him, murmuring a mixture of encouragements and commands in broken gasps between the uncontrollable shivering of his body.

Porthos was about to try again when Aramis shifted beneath his hands.

A wet gurgle and then a painful, racking cough filled the cavern.

Porthos quickly turned the medic onto his side to help him expel the water from his lungs. Aramis coughed long and hard, finally rolling onto his back and panting.

"Are you alright?" Athos asked between chattering teeth.

Aramis hissed sharply through teeth and shook from cold.

"Not d-dead. What happened?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

"You stopped breathing," Porthos answered, unable to stop the trembling in his limbs that was the aftereffects of adrenaline.

"Oh. S-so I was d-dead, then?"

"Not funny," Athos said back in a tired voice.

They were all silent for a few moments. Porthos was the first one to rouse himself.

"Where do you think we are?" he asked.

"There's n-no way of knowing right now," Aramis answered.

Athos stumbled to his feet and slipped on loose rock. He staggered and brought his hand down to catch himself.

Near the ground, he caught a familiar smell that made him freeze.

"The markings were changed," he said suddenly.

"What?" Aramis asked, confused.

"My markings! On the walls, they were changed!" Athos exclaimed, nearly shouting in excitement.

"That was back in the other cavern. Are you feeling alright, Athos? Maybe you ought to sit down—" Porthos began.

"No, Porthos! They weren't just rubbed out; they were _changed_! They looked the same!" Athos cried, searching in vain for his flint and steel that the river had stolen.

"There's coal down here," Aramis said, unable to keep the hope out of his voice. "That's how that thing was able to change the markings."

Porthos dug frantically in his pocket and pulled out a dripping piece of flint and steel. He shook the excess water droplets off briskly, then positioned them in his hands.

Striking the steel, a few tiny sparks burst in the darkness and fizzled out. Again, and again.

Moving so he was closer to the smallest pebbles, he tried again.

A few orange sparks danced along the ground. Finally, one landed on a smaller broken piece. It smoldered and burned, providing a tiny flame.

Not daring to stop and be left in the dark again, Porthos struck the flint repeatedly in frenzied strokes until a few good-sized chunks of coal were smoldering.

They waited.

The coal dust ignited briefly and flared up. It wasn't much, but it was enough to partially illuminate the room.

At first, even the dim light from the fire hurt his eyes. After a time, he was able to open them and finally look around.

Porthos could have wept with relief when he recognized his surroundings.

The river had brought them back to the first main cavern. In fact, they had climbed out not far from where they had leaned down to inspect the fish hours ago.

He turned to his brothers and found expressions of mingled hope, relief, fear and anxiety.

Aramis was frightfully pale but didn't have any serious injuries beyond the grazes and blood from the cave-in.

Athos, however, was sitting quietly on the ground. His eyes were closed and he shook violently.

Fresh blood was welling up in the numerous cuts he had sustained. The worst by far was a deep gash on the top of his head that was still oozing blackish blood. His knee had also swollen severely.

Porthos sucked in a shocked breath as the light showed the extent of the damage his friend had taken. The head injury probably accounted for the slurring of his words earlier, if the cold didn't. It was a wonder the man was still conscious.

"Athos," Aramis breathed. His eyes widened as he saw the gash.

The former comte opened his eyes and smiled weakly at his friends.

"It's not that bad," he managed.

Porthos shook his head and carefully helped maneuver Athos towards the smoldering coal in an effort to get warm.

The eldest musketeer leaned as close as he could to the coal without actually touching it and stayed that way.

The minutes dragged on. Slowly, the smoldering lumps of coal became flames, and the musketeers were careful to keep them burning.

"Athos, back up. Your sleeves are beginning to burn," Aramis said, pulling the former comte slightly back from the coal.

Indeed, his wet sleeves were beginning to smolder and burn despite their condition.

"I thought I was starting to feel something," Athos said dryly.

"If he's still alive, d'Artagnan should be here soon," Aramis murmured to Porthos.

"Do you really think that thing got him?" the large musketeer whispered back uneasily.

"If that's the case, then it's up to us to make sure no one else gets hurt by this thing," Athos said quietly. "You saw what it did to Pierre. We can't allow that to happen to anyone else. Ever."

Determination rang through even these quiet words and Aramis and Porthos looked at each other bleakly.

The musketeers could hear something echoing through the tunnel.

They all got to their feet and hopelessly braced themselves. Their guns and powder were thoroughly waterlogged; they would never fire now.

Athos pulled out a small hunting knife and got into a defensive position.

The sound was growing louder by the second. Aramis could now distinguish footsteps.

"It's d'Artagnan!" he exclaimed, hearing the boots echoing on the stone floor.

A few scant moments later, the Gascon came bursting out of one of the tunnels and into the main cavern.

In the light, he looked like an incarnation of the grim reaper himself; covered from head to toe in grey dust from the rubble. The blood on his face seemed almost unnaturally red in contrast with the rest of his body and his eyes glittered feverishly.

The child in his arms was deathly pale and clearly unconscious. Athos' cloak flapped around the child in loosely draped folds.

The Gascon caught sight of his friends and forced his rubbery legs to halt.

The musketeers ran to meet him. Aramis took Emil from his arms and laid him gently on the ground.

D'Artagnan sank to his knees, gasping for breath from the exertion of running for so long.

"D'Artagnan!" Porthos exclaimed.

"Porthos, quieter, please, quieter," the Gascon rasped out, looking sick.

Aramis noted the sensitivity to sound and the nasty cut on his temple at nearly the same time.

"We weren't sure you had survived," the medic told him in a low voice.

"I almost didn't," the Gascon croaked, beginning to lose his voice once again. "It caught up with us on the path; I pushed it over the side and into the pit.

"Is it dead?" Athos asked weakly, from his spot on the ground near Emil.

D'Artagnan looked up, saw the terrible state his friend was in, and shook his head weakly.

"Nothing could have survived that fall," Porthos said, dismayed at his friend's certainty.

"It's coming; I can hear it," d'Artagnan whispered hoarsely, closing his eyes.

Aramis looked at the young man with deep concern, then turned his gaze on Porthos.

"What can we do?" the medic asked his friend.

"We have to stop it," Athos said, getting to his feet with some difficulty.

The Gascon sighed deeply but hauled himself upright as well. Aramis caught him as he wavered.

"Are you alright?" he queried, giving the young man a shake.

"No choice," d'Artagnan mouthed, unable to speak. He lightly brushed off his friend's hand and staggered towards the wall for support.

Porthos sighed deeply. D'Artagnan quietly loaded his pistol with the last ball and bit of dry powder they had managed to retain.

The coal was burning steadily now. Thanks to the musketeer's efforts, flames leaped from the pile and illuminated the room.

They stood shoulder to shoulder behind the fire, waiting for the thing to make its appearance.

Aramis felt his hands shaking around the small dagger Porthos had given him. What good would it do against something that could inflict so much damage without a weapon?

He glanced over and saw d'Artagnan holding his pistol with their last shot in one hand and a rock shard in the other. A flat, hard look filled his eyes as he stood protectively in front of the still unconscious boy.

The Gascon tensed, clearly hearing something.

The others waited for a moment, straining their ears. The ragged slapping sound of bare feet against the stone emanated faintly from the depths of the tunnel d'Artagnan had exited.

The sounds grew closer, and Porthos thought his racing heart would burst out of his chest.

Suddenly, a dark figure could be seen in the darker recesses of the tunnel. Firelight danced along the creature, silhouetting something tall.

It stepped closer, closer. A low growl filled the cavern and set the soldier's teeth on edge.

Finally, it crept out of the shadows and narrowed its dark eyes at the light.

The musketeers couldn't help the various flinches, gasps of surprise and chills that ran down their entire bodies at the ghastly sight of the thing.

It was grotesquely thin, a sepulcher of jutting bones and wiry muscle laid over bone. Every one of its ribs could be counted easily.

Aramis could see the thing's heartbeat through the flesh on its scrawny chest and watched in sick fascination as it thumped unceasingly.

Its eyes, black and soulless, peered at the musketeers and appeared to roll wildly in its head.

Worst of all was the face. It was pure white and flat. The shape of the nose was unmistakable. Stringy hair fell in mottled clumps over the otherwise bare scalp and ears.

"Cuvelier," Athos uttered, face blank with shock.

It snarled and bared rotting, blackened teeth. The mouth and hands were smeared with blackish gore and blood from its previous kill. Remnants of trousers so tattered it could hardly be called clothing clung to jutting hipbones and flapped against skeletal legs.

The once-Cuvelier lowered itself into a crouch and snarled again.

D'Artagnan stared coldly at the beast, eyes reflecting the dancing flames in front of him.

The inhuman creature met his gaze and something like recognition flickered in its eyes.

Then it launched forwards.

Aramis threw his dagger and succeeded in burying it in the beast's left shoulder, a minor miracle considering the circumstances.

Cuvelier howled but didn't stop in his charge. Athos moved quickly to the side and managed to slice at it with his own small knife.

The thing changed directions midstride and spun to face the musketeer. Athos blinked, stunned by the frightening speed it showed, and that moment was nearly his undoing.

It slammed hard into him and took them both to the ground.

Athos, stunned, barely had time to block the spindly fingers reaching for his face with indescribable ferocity.

The musketeer grabbed the thin arm with both hands and twisted the skin as hard as he could. The skin split wide like an overripe fruit and rained a reeking mixture of blood, pus and a clear liquid that oozed from the wound onto the soldier.

The beast gave a blood-curdling shriek and yanked its arm away.

Pieces of flesh hung in ragged strips from its damaged limb. Some sloughed off and landed in wet little _plops!_ against the floor of the cavern.

Porthos grabbed the thing from behind while it was distracted from the pain and pulled it off Athos with a hefty yank.

As he was struggling to keep his grip, the beast snapped its head back hard into Porthos' face.

Black stars bloomed in his vision, went supernovae, flickered and died.

The large musketeer couldn't do anything except sink to his knees, momentarily blinded by the pain in his nose.

From a distance, it seemed, he heard an infuriated roar from one of his brothers.

Then, the thing was being pulled away from him. Aramis and d'Artagnan had both seized an arm and were bodily dragging it backward.

The Gascon's hands slipped in the bloody mess of its right arm and caused the thing to cry out even more horribly than before.

With inhuman strength, it wrenched itself out of Aramis' grip and flew towards the unprepared d'Artagnan.

The thing pinned him against the wall and buried its reeking mouth into his shoulder.

D'Artagnan found his voice then; he let out a bright wail borne of pain and struggled to get away.

His pistol fell from nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor.

The monster ripped a chunk of flesh from the Gascon's shoulder and swallowed without seeming to chew. Fresh blood ran in droplets down its chin.

It descended again but d'Artagnan's wildly flailing wrist caught it squarely in the mouth.

The force of his blow forced several of the rotting teeth loose and backward down the deep red hole of the beast's gullet.

It swallowed compulsively without seeming to realize _what_ it was consuming. The Gascon watched in mute horror as its mouth opened once more, the small black bones gone as if by magic.

In the time it took d'Artagnan to realize that this inhuman face would be the last thing he would see, the bullet punched through the back of the beast's head and blew out an apple-sized hole as it came out the other side. The spent ball buried itself in the rock not quite a quarter inch from the Gascon's ear.

The light did not go out of Cuvelier's eyes. There hadn't been any light in them to begin with.

Athos lowered the smoking gun and staggered backward unsteadily. Porthos caught him as Aramis ran forwards to heave the corpse off d'Artagnan.

After extricating him from the thing's death grip, the Gascon slid to the floor in a boneless heap.

Aramis wrenched open the Gascon's shirt to examine the wound and swore at the heavily bleeding mess he saw.

D'Artagnan's face was oddly expressionless, and his eyes were fixed on some faraway point.

"Stay awake," Aramis commanded, giving his face a light slap. "Are you with me?"

"I'm...with you," the Gascon rasped out in a disconnected tone a moment later.

"Aramis, we need to leave," Porthos said, unable to keep the worry out of his tone.

Athos was being supported by the large man. His legs were visibly trembling with the effort of standing. He refused to relinquish the iron grip on the pistol held at his side.

The medic quickly tore a strip of clothing from his still sopping cloak and tied it tightly around d'Artagnan's still heavily bleeding shoulder.

The Gascon didn't make a sound, just stared over Aramis' shoulder at the horrid beast, now dead.

It lay face down on the rocks as blood slowly spread in a pool around its head.

Aramis grimaced and tried to turn his friend away from the awful sight, feeling sick.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

D'Artagnan just nodded and tottered towards where Athos and Porthos stood.

Aramis looked at the once-human creature again.

One of the beast's outstretched hands was extended over the bank and lying partly in the river.

The blind fish nipped innocently at the cooling flesh of his fingertips, taking off minuscule bites with their tiny teeth.

Then Aramis thought he _would_ be sick; he turned away as he felt his bile clawing its way up to his throat when he saw something on the beast's hand that made him forget all about his nausea.

Aramis approached the creature warily, although his caution was useless; the thing was quite dead.

On the hand dangling in the water, a tarnished silver ring glittered on the skeletal ring finger.

Aramis carefully worked it from the knobby joints and gazed at it thoughtfully before stuffing it in his pocket.

Then he hurried to join the others.

D'Artagnan had picked up Emil and refused to give him to anyone else despite his own difficulty.

Athos was still being supported by Porthos but seemed marginally better than before.

Slowly, painfully slowly, they began the walk towards freedom.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:**_ Hello everyone! Here is the sixth and final chapter of this little fic. I want to take a minute to thank everyone here for their support. The feedback I've gotten has been incredibly encouraging, and everyone is so positive towards my first try at this type of writing. It means a lot, you guys. It really does. This story is dedicated to every person who ever took a chance on it and decided to read something new.

I expect that a lot of you will be feeling pretty stunned after you read the last few lines. I know I was.

I swear, I didn't intentionally write this story with this ending in mind. I didn't have anything like this planned at all until this morning when this idea popped into my head, already mostly formed and waiting to be written. I'm not sure where this stuff comes from, but I just don't want anybody to think I'm crazy (I'm not I swear).

If anybody likes it, or is disgusted/shocked by it, or hates it totally, go ahead and leave a review if you're inclined to. All opinions are valid, and I know the ending of this story might not be satisfying for some. So let me know!

All mistakes are still mine, this wonderful show is not.

Thank you all.

Namaste.

* * *

The sun was just beginning to rise over the hills when the men staggered out of the cave entrance.

Orange light illuminated the land and mountains. Even at this low level, the sun seemed blinding and caused tears of protest to stream down their faces.

Porthos walked while supporting Athos, who looked worse than ever in the light of day.

Aramis stepped slowly along, reveling in the warmth of the sunlight on his face and the wet smell of the fresh air.

In front of the medic, d'Artagnan trudged with Emil still in his arms. Although his knees trembled and he was starting to feel disoriented, he refused to give the boy to Aramis.

They walked through the soft grass of the meadow. The birds were already awake and chirping, bees hummed sleepily around the flowers at their feet.

As they reached the edge of the meadow, something made Athos turn to look back at the cave entrance. The others followed suit.

The _crevasse_ was dark and bathed in shadow as always. And yet even Aramis could tell that something felt different about it. The dark area was less menacing, somehow.

Slowly, they turned back towards the village.

* * *

The farmer was carrying a bundle of wood back to his house when they emerged. He dropped his load and gave a shout of fright, backing away from the spectral figures.

His terror could be forgiven; the musketeers looked like ghouls escaped from the underworld. The grime and dirt stood out starkly on their skin in the morning light. Blood was caked on their hands, faces, and clothing along with greyish dust from the rubble. All looked exhausted and something about them seemed surreal in the peaceful surroundings.

A group of men, summoned by their neighbor's cry, ran out to see the commotion then also froze in shock. The women joined them quietly, and even the children were solemn as they took in the sight.

Together, the soldiers limped back through the main path of the village, one man lost but one child found.

The people lined the sides of the road and watched silently as they approached the hovel where the old woman lived.

Aramis went to knock on the door but was stopped by one of the villagers.

"She isn't in there," he said flatly. "Madame de Morel is in her time; Aggie went to help as a midwife early this morning. We don't know when she'll be back, either."

"We found her grandson," Athos said weakly, gesturing towards d'Artagnan.

The man looked startled as if seeing the Gascon for the first time and a genuine flicker of emotion passed across his face.

"We had prayed for so long that he wouldn't end up like the others," the man said in a trembling voice.

Porthos was astonished to see the thin man pull a handkerchief from his pocket and scrub at his eyes with it.

"Go and run, go tell Aggie!" he ordered one of the children, who ran off as fast as he could shouting at the top of his lungs.

Most of the women were crying in relief, and a few men looked as though they were about to join.

After a few minutes, the child came back holding hands with the old woman who hurried as fast as she could.

"Oh, Emil," she whispered, eyes filling with tears as she saw the unconscious child in the Gascon's arms. "Is he...?"

"He's alive," Aramis reassured her immediately.

D'Artagnan stepped forward holding his precious burden, and the old woman ran a gentle hand down the boy's brow. He stirred and opened his eyes.

Several cries of joy were heard from the crowd surrounding them. The men hastily produced a blanket from somewhere and laid it down on a nearby wood pallet.

The Gascon slowly got to his knees to lay the child down, when the boy clung tight and whispered something in his ear.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened and he looked at the child' face in shock. The boy stared solemnly back at him; wide brown eyes reflecting lost innocence of childhood.

The Gascon stood up suddenly, but the world suddenly felt as though it were rolling under his feet. The sky melted away above his head, and only Aramis' quick reflexes kept him from landing hard on the ground.

"Alright, I've got you," Aramis muttered in his ear, not knowing if the man could hear him or not.

"Is he alright?" Aggie asked sharply, moving towards the injured soldier. Aramis set him down gently, where he looked around with unseeing eyes at the people surrounding them.

"He will be," Porthos told her. She looked them all up and down, her face a cipher.

Athos, who looked somewhat recovered, stepped away from Porthos' careful grip and stood in front of the crowd of people.

"We have been in the caves outside of the village," he began loudly. Aramis was cheered to hear that his voice was just as it always was.

"The boy was found, and the beast that took him has been killed. You should have no further problems with missing children. If you do, send word to Paris for Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan. We will be here within a day."

"But did you find the two girls?" an anxious voice asked from the crowd.

Athos' face reflected the sorrow he felt as he quietly said, "We didn't find them alive."

Weeping erupted in the group of poor women and caused Porthos to blink back a few tears of grief himself.

"Did you find Cuvelier?" another voice asked.

Silence, save for the weeping. Aramis didn't know what to say.

"No," Athos said coldly. "We found no man named Cuvelier, no man at all. Simply a beast in the cave."

Aggie was watching the soldiers closely.

"We did find this," Aramis said, bending down to the old woman and pulling the silver ring from his pocket.

Her eyes widened in recognition as she reached out to take it with trembling hands.

"Thank you," she said, looking up at the soldiers again. "From all of us here, you don't know what it means—" her voice broke and tears rolled freely down her lined face. She made no move to wipe them away.

"May you find peace, all of you," Athos said to the group. "God be with you."

The blessing was repeated back fervently and rolled on the tongues of all those in the crowd. Several men reached out to shake their hands or bowed in respect to the men.

Aramis crouched down beside the Gascon, who was only partly aware of what was happening.

Hoisting him to his feet, they walked slowly to where their horses were still tethered.

Athos had to be assisted onto horseback; his knee was now too swollen to bend on its own and he bit back a scream of pain as it was jostled by the careful hands helping him.

Aramis got into horseback and some of the villagers passed d'Artagnan's mostly unconscious body onto the saddle in front of him. The handsome medic wrapped an arm gently around the young man to ensure he didn't fall.

Porthos took the reigns to d'Artagnan's horse, and they began to ride slowly out of the village.

Everyone watched them go, and a few children followed them until they reached the main road back to Paris.

The soldiers trekked painfully towards their city in silence. The sun rose and stretched high over their backs.

* * *

Porthos was steadfastly ignoring the bolts of pain from his very probably broken nose. Every jolt in the horse's gait made it worse, and he suppressed a sigh.

Athos sat astride his horse at the front of the group. The easy rhythm rocked him back and forth, and he began to feel drowsy.

Aramis rode carefully to keep hold of the unconscious Gascon in front of him. Blood from d'Artagnan's wounded shoulder seeped through the makeshift bandage and stained Aramis' leathers. Looking up, he saw the eldest musketeer's head droop and then snap back up, swaying slightly.

"Athos," he called, signaling him to stop. "Do we need to stop?"

"There are not more than three-quarters of an hour to Paris now," the former comte said as the medic pulled up beside him. "I'm fine."

"I'd believe it more if you didn't look as though you were going to fall off your horse," Aramis said dryly, narrowing his eyes.

Indeed, Athos was swaying in his saddle. He turned pale suddenly and closed his eyes, swallowing hard and gripping the pommel to stay on horseback.

"What is it?" Aramis asked him, alarmed.

"My head hurts," the comte admitted quietly.

"We'll get you back to the garrison and you can rest all you want," Aramis replied, giving his shoulder a friendly squeeze.

"How's he?" Athos asked, gesturing towards the unconscious Gascon.

"He's still out," Aramis said, trying not to show how worried he was. "I can't really look at him until we get back to the garrison."

"All the more reason to keep going," Porthos said, riding up beside them.

"How's your face?" Athos asked sympathetically.

Porthos shrugged.

"It's not bad."

It was. He could feel sweat gathering on his forehead and the sharp stabbing pains in his nose were starting to take their toll.

Aramis shot him a look that said he understood every unspoken word in his mind.

"We'll take a look at that, too," Aramis said.

They fell into silence again and continued on their way.

"Why didn't you tell them?" Porthos asked, directing the question at Athos' back. "They deserve to know the truth."

"I thought it was better this way," Athos said, not turning to look at him.

"You lied to them," Porthos replied.

At this, Athos stiffened.

"What would you have? To know that someone they cared about, one of their own, became that _thing_ and committed those monstrosities—"

"That 'thing' was a man!" Porthos said, getting angry.

"You think I don't know that?" Athos hissed back. "That revolting, piteous creature was once a man! He had no more compunction than an animal; a man is distinguished from the other beasts by his morals. Cuvelier was stripped entirely of those. I can never forget that! At least this way he dies with dignity; his family will never know how far he fell."

Porthos had nothing to say to that.

Aramis winced as if the words had been directed at him. D'Artagnan shifted and muttered something.

The medic gripped him tighter, then frowned, bringing his hand to the young musketeer's forehead.

"He has a fever," he told Athos.

"We'll get back to Paris," was the implacable reply.

* * *

They rode into the garrison at a walk. A few musketeers were training in the yard but stopped to stare at the soldiers.

Treville was talking with one of the stable hands and glanced up as he heard the hoofbeats. He took a double-take and a frown settled on his face.

"What in the name of hell happened to you?" he demanded, catching sight of the Inseparables. "Where's Pierre?"

"It's a long story," Athos said tiredly, slipping off his horse.

Treville caught him as he stumbled.

"I'll give you a full report as soon as we are able, Captain," Aramis said meaningfully, glancing around the garrison.

"Understood," Treville said, catching his drift immediately. "Get to the infirmary. Do you need help with him?" D'Artagnan was semi-coherent, but not in any state to walk by himself.

"We've got him," Porthos said, lifting the young man as if he weighed no more than a child.

The Captain rolled his eyes slightly but let them leave and tried to act nonchalant towards the other musketeers in the yard. There would be time later for explanations.

* * *

Porthos set d'Artagnan down on the cot carefully before sitting down wearily on the bed next to him.

Aramis looked down at the Gascon in concern, looking helplessly at the blood covering his friend.

Athos heaved himself to his feet, trying to keep the weight off his bad leg.

"Sit down," Aramis ordered.

The former comte didn't even grace that comment with a reply and went across the room to get a bowl for water.

"I'm not joking, Athos," Aramis warned.

The musketeer was about to make a reply when his vision swam. He tried to tell Aramis what was happening, but the blood in his ears roared. He fell to the floor with a loud thud.

The medic's head snapped over to see Athos struggling weakly to his elbows.

"Damn it!"

Aramis' temper flared and he stomped over to where his friend was lying. He hoisted the man up and roughly deposited him on the nearest bed.

"Now stay there until I have time to pick the rocks out of your head!" Aramis said sharply, turning back to d'Artagnan.

Porthos wordlessly left and came back a few minutes later with a few bowls full of water.

The Gascon's forehead was covered in a light sheen of sweat, and his shock-induced fever was rising.

Aramis didn't look up as Porthos put down the water and immediately soaked a clean cloth.

D'Artagnan stirred as the medic brushed over the deep cut on his temple and cleaned the accumulated grime off his face.

"It shouldn't have bled this much," Aramis murmured uneasily.

"It didn't," the Gascon croaked in a voice that made Porthos wince. "Not my blood. Pierre's."

Porthos looked over at his young friend, then glanced back over to Aramis.

"You can tell us later," Aramis said, resuming his ministrations. "Porthos, can you put some water to boil, please?"

The large musketeer got up and went to do as he was bid.

Athos pulled himself so he was leaned against the wall and turned his head away from Aramis. His head thumped nastily in time with his heart and made him feel sick. He was suddenly exhausted, and his eyes slipped closed.

Slowly, physical sensation faded away. An undetermined amount of time passed.

The next thing he was aware of was a sharp, stinging in his right cheek.

His eyes opened. He blinked to find a very worried looking Aramis bending over him. It took another second for Athos to realize he had been slapped.

"You hit me," Athos said, looking mildly shocked.

"You didn't give me a choice," Aramis said seriously, looking into his eyes. "You should have said something. You've got a fairly severe concussion, so you'll need to stay awake."

"Wonderful," Athos replied, head already starting to hurt again.

"Let's take a look at your knee," Aramis said.

Taking a knife, he slit Athos' pants to relieve some of the pressure. Athos kept silent, even though it was clear how much pain he was in.

"It's twisted, but it doesn't look too bad. The swelling should go down in a few days," Aramis said as he wrapped bandages tightly around the swollen joint.

Athos breathed out evenly in an effort to control the pain.

"How's d'Artagnan?" he said, looking over at his sleeping comrade.

Aramis sighed.

"Honestly, he could be a lot worse. He took a pretty good knock to the head, but not nearly as bad as yours. It's his shoulder I'm most worried about. He lost some blood, but I've cleaned it. Hopefully, it won't get infected; God knows what sorts of disease have festered down there."

"Are you alright, Aramis?" Athos asked, looking at the slumped shoulders of his friend.

"I'm tired, is all," the medic replied, rubbing at his eyes. "It was a long night."

Porthos ducked back into the room carrying some blankets. He had cleaned up some; blood no longer coated his face and clothing.

His face was bruised, but he smiled when he saw Athos.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, laying one of the blankets onto the sleeping d'Artagnan.

"Not bad," Athos answered, feeling his head thump. Spots danced darkly at the edges of his vision.

"Drink this," Porthos replied, holding a cup. "It'll help with the pain somewhat."

Athos took the cup without complaint and found it sweet, albeit with a slightly bitter aftertaste.

Shortly after, he began to feel marginally better. His head cleared and it seemed that he could focus more easily. He stripped off his foul-smelling uniform and breathed a sigh of relief when the filthy clothing was no longer touching his skin.

Aramis did the same and returned after a few minutes wearing a fresh shirt and trousers.

It was in that quiet time of the day when they sat together in silence that they had time to reflect on the things that had happened. The sun slowly set and the stars winked in the night sky.

Athos looked up at them, thinking of everything and nothing all at once. Porthos dropped off to sleep first. Aramis valiantly fought the pull of exhaustion for as long as he could but ended up falling asleep a few hours before dawn. The Gascon slept peacefully through the night. When light was appearing in the east, Athos watched the soft light fill the garrison and dropped into a light, dreamless sleep.

* * *

The musketeers gave their full report to Treville late the next day. The Captain listened to their tale in silence. After being convinced of its' veracity, he sent a small group to quietly recover Pierre's body.

The young cadet was brought back to Paris and given a musketeer's funeral with every soldier in the garrison attending.

Aramis developed a nasty cough and fever, not unsurprisingly, after nearly drowning in the river. The others stayed with him through most of the time as he healed, nursing their own injuries and just content to be in each others' company.

Their nights were plagued with demons of the past and reaching hands in the darkness. It wasn't infrequently that d'Artagnan found himself being gently shaken awake by one of his brothers with his throat hoarse and burning as it had been in the caverns.

Athos was quieter and more withdrawn than ever for a few days. The others gave him to process what had happened but stayed close. The former comte had his fair share of nightmares.

Gradually, the horrific details faded slightly. It was when Athos looked over two weeks later and saw Aramis smiling unrestrainedly at some joke Porthos had told him that he knew they would be alright.

He walked alongside d'Artagnan through the yard, still limping slightly, when something struck him.

"Do you remember when we got back to the village?" Athos asked suddenly.

"Sort of," the Gascon admitted. "I remember what Aggie said, and how the people in the village were. Not much else though, until I woke up here."

"The boy whispered something to you when you put him down," Athos said, remembering the odd exchange. "What was it?"

D'Artagnan stopped with an odd expression on his face. "I don't quite recall," he said slowly, tugging at a half-formed memory.

"It was something to do with his grandmother, I think. Aggie."

"Probably just thanking you for bringing him back," Athos said, letting the concern go.

The younger musketeer nodded in agreement, although he still looked slightly uneasy, and fell into step beside his friend.

* * *

Sunset stole over the small village again. The children were called back to their homes. Everyone settled down for the night, and the houses were quiet.

Aggie slipped out of her house, holding a small bundle in her arms and humming contentedly.

Madame de Morel had been very weak since giving birth but seemed to be recovering somewhat in the two weeks that had followed. Her baby was also healthy: a beautiful girl.

A successful delivery combined with the return of her grandson was almost more good news than she had dared to hope for two weeks ago.

The old crone closed the door quietly and wrapped her shawl more securely around herself to ward off the chilly night.

Silent as the shadows themselves, she slipped across the village and into the forest to emerge in the clearing.

She walked through the firefly-filled clearing towards the cave entrance. Aggie set down the bundle, then struck flint and steel to light the small torch she had made and left there earlier that day.

The sparks burst into a flame, and she resumed her journey, bundle safely in her arms once more.

The old woman navigated the tunnels easily as one who has walked a path a thousand times. Her soft footsteps echoed through the porous caverns as she unerringly reached the main chamber which contained the underground river.

She held the torch aloft and gasped when she saw the thin, pale form of Cuvelier's corpse.

Creeping softly over, she saw the decomposition of his body and the damage from the final, fatal blow Athos had dealt.

She dropped to her knees with a soft whimper, feeling her heart flutter in her chest.

"My son," she whispered brokenly. "Oh, my beautiful boy."

Aggie pulled the corpse near her so that the gory mess of his head was resting onto her lap and stained her apron.

The old woman's face stretched in a mask of grief as she wept quietly. Her thin white hair was gently tousled in ethereal wisps around her head by the draft.

The river flowed quietly nearby, and she gazed at the running water for a few moments before speaking.

"I'm so sorry that this happened to you, my dear," she whispered to the body. "It's not right, after all that time, to find you like this."

She crooned to the dead thing in her arms as if it could still hear her soft words.

"You did so well, staying down here all these long years. I know it wasn't easy for you, but you were perfect. The children were so willing to do anything to help an old woman; it was just so _easy_ to send them here for you, my perfect baby boy. In the end, it was even easy to take care of Emil. I waited until he was sleeping tonight, then smothered him with a pillow on your bed. For you, all for you, my dear."

The old woman giggled then, a grotesquely high sound more suited to a young girl.

Suddenly, she sobered.

"But you don't have to worry anymore," she whispered, stroking the mutilated mess of flesh and bone beneath her gentle fingers. "Because I have a new idea."

Her blood-smeared hands reached towards the small bundle she had brought with her.

Parting the cloth gently, she unwrapped the outside layer partially to expose her new masterpiece.

A small baby, hardly two weeks old was lying soundly asleep swaddled in the cloth.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Aggie said quietly, tracing a bloody finger around the delicate curve of the child's head.

"It was different for you because you had grown up in the outside world first. This child has seen the sun scarcely a dozen times; she will not remember it as she grows here. But I will tell her about you. And we will both remember you, my sweet. Always and forever."

The crone lowered her mouth to what was left of the corpse's forehead and kissed it sweetly, with all the love and affection she felt for her son. Her mouth was stained with the blood of a long-dead corpse as she rose to her feet.

The baby never stirred as the old woman doused her torch in the river and left them in total darkness. Slowly, solemnly, Aggie went into the depths of the neverending cavern holding the child close.


End file.
